


As I stared I counted

by softgrungeprophet



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Comic Book Science, Gender Confusion, Other, Post-Canon Fix-It, Resurrection, Romantic Friendship, mild shapeshifting, minimal plot, they kiss at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22346458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: Peter's hand lit on the back of Flash's neck, a spider in its own way—Flash could feel his body heat through the glove, and didn't move away. The touch drew goosebumps up Flash's skin, at first, but Peter's hand pressed firmer against the back of Flash's neck and he finally just said, again, "I'm sorry."
Relationships: Peter Parker/Flash Thompson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. the webs from all the spiders

**Author's Note:**

> In the brand new tradition of, "how many of my very few published spideyflash fics can i name after Blink-182 songs," (2/3 so far!) the title comes from Blink-182's "[I Miss You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s1tAYmMjLdY)".
> 
> Loosely set in a kind of future canon, assuming that Absolute Garbage is wrapped up and everything from ASM800 to now happens within only a few (six-ish?) months, giving this fic a year since Flash's death. Timeline's all fucked up and I can't be bothered to do the math to unfuck it.
> 
> I will say right now that this whole fic contains a lot of pronoun swapping (between "she" and "he") for Flash; hopefully not confusing.
> 
> As someone who prefers not to be gendered, yeah I could have used "they" for this but it wasn't really what I wanted and I also don't think Flash has that kind of understanding or vocabulary, even if passively sort of aware as an adult.  
> Also it's fun to play around with my writing.

Flash woke with a gasp and a jolt, as if struck by lightning.

He—he? That was right? She? They? It?

Who?

Eugene—no.

Flash Thompson.

That old AA script uncurled out in Flash's brain.

 _Hello, my name is Flash Thompson and I'm an alcoholic_.

Recovering alcoholic. Abuse survivor. Gym teacher. Ex-soldier. Wannabe hero.

 _Hello, my name is Flash Thompson. I'm thirty_ —

Thirty-one?

Boy from Queens, New York. College dropout, lover of poetry, Spider-Man's biggest fan.

Flash breathed heavily, gradually calming, slowing, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. Unfamiliar in its specifics but Flash was no stranger to the sight of a discolored patch on white paint, or to the sounds that began to filter in—traffic, shouting kids, pigeons.

 _Blink-182_?

"Spider-man..."

Flash sat bolt upright. "Peter?!"

A thud and a yelp from beyond the closed door startled Flash—

The door flew open so hard it slammed against the wall and _stuck_.

Peter froze there, eyes wide as sinkholes. His hand gripped against the doorframe. At least as startled as Flash.

The wood splintered beneath his fingers.

Flash had only a split second to drag a sharp breath in with Peter suddenly wrapped around him. Like a shot, so fast he moved. Like those spiders that jumped so fast they were there, and then suddenly they weren't, except instead he wasn't there, and then suddenly he was. He squeezed Flash maybe a little too hard, maybe so Flash's ribs protested, and Flash let out the softest wheeze.

"Pete—"

Immediately, Peter pulled back. He looked... spooked, almost. Pupils massive, eyes dark in the slight shadows of his own bedroom. Only lit by the dimmest afternoon light sneaking through the bare window over the fire escape. They stared at each other a moment, and then Peter murmured, "Flash Thompson..."

Almost tasting it on his tongue, as his eyes drifted slightly away from Flash's face.

He faltered, raising his eyebrows and flicking his eyes back up. Still wide, ghost-filled. Then he cracked an awkward half-grin, and laughed, and said, "Why are you naked?"

Flash rolled his eyes. He felt different. This body was the same but... different. Mind, too. Jumbled, mixed up. Uncertain, anymore. Like something had evolved during the time Flash had been dead and Flash had just... skipped the in-between, or couldn't remember it, or something.

Flash had been dead, right?

He crossed firm arms in front of a chest just as broad as before, but a little bit... softer. Looked down—yeah definitely naked. Flushed a little at the unfamiliar softness to the edges of this familiar body.

Flash glanced up at Peter, who just... stared.

Flash blushed darker. "Are you gonna get me a coat, or what?"

Peter rolled his eyes but he grabbed a sweatshirt from the floor and tossed it at Flash, breaking from his transfixed state.

"You're supposed to be _dead_."

Flash huffed, pulling the ratty old ESU sweatshirt on and straightening it around her waist. "Oh, sorry, lemme just go get hit by a car real quick." The sweatshirt must have been a little big on Peter, because it fit Flash's broad shoulders perfectly.

Peter shot Flash this _look_ , sharp and on the verge between angry and wild. He jabbed a finger toward Flash. " _Not_ funny."

"Okay, not funny. Sorry." And yeah, yeah, Peter was right. Now that Flash thought about it, that really wasn't funny. "Sorry, I'm just... Disoriented." Flash scooted toward the edge of the bed and added, "Pants?"

"Yeah—" Peter nodded, and he looked so serious as he pulled open a drawer in his dresser and fished around. Paused with a pair of gym shorts in one hand, just looking into space. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it and tossed the shorts at Flash.

Flash caught them and flopped onto her back to shimmy them on.

Lay there for a moment, hands folded on her stomach and staring up at the ceiling. "Hey, Pete?"

A rustle. A sort of thick silence for a moment. Finally, "Hm?"

Flash's stomach growled.

"Uh."

"Lemme... heat up some leftovers. I think I've got something."

The door clicked shut, and Flash raised his head to look at it. Avoidant Peter Parker. Just 'cause his best friend (well, one of them) died and came back to life... Yeah, okay, Flash would have been stressed too, even without the softened edges and jumbled up everything.

Flash _was_ stressed.

For example: why had Flash woken up naked in Peter's bed? Why _now_? How long had it been? How was Flash going to get around without a wheelchair or prosthetic legs? When had Flash started thinking of him or herself in such mixed terms and why didn't that bother Flash as much as Flash thought it should?

And where had _these_ come from?

Flash grabbed her definitely-new-and-not-there-before breasts through her borrowed sweatshirt like she could somehow analyze their existence through her palms. Pressing flat until—

Oh.

They were gone.

"What the fuck is going on?" A whisper. Flash hooked a finger under the edge of his sweatshirt to peer down at his suddenly flat chest. As if the mass had been redistributed elsewhere but there had been so little mass Flash had no idea where it might have redistributed _to_. Pectoral muscles, maybe. Flash had always had a decent pair, if he were honest.

Still, this shape-molding...

Almost reminiscent of when Flash had been bonded to the symbiote, the times they had transformed together. How often Flash let it just... work his body into whatever shape they needed. How often he took advantage of "espionage" and "the mission" and "going undercover" to explore new bodies and shapes.

The door opened and Flash sat up with a jolt, ears suddenly warm.

Peter halted in the doorway, eyebrows drawn together in confusion as he balanced a plate of leftover lo mein in one hand and a bowl of slightly-too-much rice and vegetables in the other. His eyes flicked to Flash's chest and he asked, "Are you... What are you doing?"

"Nothing!" Flash ran a hand through her hair. His hair. It was a little shaggy, curling at the ends, but not really that much longer than when Flash had died. Mostly in need of a neck buzz, like a few weeks had passed at most. She let her fingers move down around her ear and to the edge of her jaw. There was a little bit of fuzz there, though not quite the same as stubble. A little finer, and sparser. Still probably needed to shave. Flash met Peter's frown with his own and said, "This is weird."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Yeah," He shut the door behind him with his foot and brought over the reheated leftovers. "It's a little weird."

Awkward silence...

"Here," Peter handed Flash the rice, firm in his gestures. "Eat."

Didn't have to tell Flash twice.

***

"First thing's first—" Flash flattened the notebook in his lap, sitting on the somewhat threadbare couch in Peter's tiny living room. "How long was I out?"

Peter sat with a grunt, a cup of coffee in either hand. He passed one to Flash and said, "Exactly one year, almost to the hour." He glanced into his coffee, mouth tightening briefly. "I... was actually planning to visit your grave, when you showed up."

Flash wrapped slightly cold fingers around the warmth of the mug, silent a moment—couldn't help a kind of half-formed not-quite-laugh from escaping her mouth. "You're really something else, Pete. How many times did you forget my birthday?" Flash shot him a grin—not mad, just teasing. "Every year?"

"Listen," Peter took a drink, like he could keep from answering. Or keep from dwelling. "Your birthday doesn't keep me up at night wondering how I could have stopped it."

Easier to just raise the mug to his lips than respond, the silence palpable and suffocating. After a long gulp of slightly-too-hot coffee, though, Flash wrote "one year" on the page. Added a few brief notes about the changes he'd noticed in his body—the almost negligible hair growth as though it had only been a month or so since it had been cut, the slightly softened edges and barely-anything breasts there one minute and gone the next. But also the things that were the same—Flash's long-healed residual limbs, the particular pattern her body hair formed in its reddish translucency, the same junk as always (at least externally), and presumably the same face. He ran his fingers down his nose. Felt like the same nose. Same lips. Probably. He didn't really make a habit of memorizing his face by touch.

"Hey," Flash finally broke the awkward silence between her and Peter, mug on the coffee table cooling. "Do I look the same?"

Her _voice_ sounded the same. Average baritone, maybe slightly on the higher side.

Peter's eyebrows quirked slightly, but he set his cup aside, tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he looked at Flash with some concentration. So serious, so focused. So Peter. _He_ looked the same, just about. Dark brows, dark eyes, dark hair a little too short to be slicked back but forced to behave anyway. Long lashes, and when he reached out to grasp her by the jaw, those same strong, long, spidery fingers.

He turned Flash's face to look at it in the light, and she let her eyes drift closed slightly against the glare from the light on the ceiling.

"Smile."

Flash made a face, definitely not a smile, but Peter huffed and knocked her chin with a knuckle.

"Same dimples." He grinned slightly, when Flash opened her eyes to look at him. "A real looker, eh?" He waggled his eyebrows.

Flash rolled his eyes, but something fluttery and warm tickled up his back despite Peter's obvious joking tone. He leaned his arm on the back of the couch, eyeing Peter with a slight edge of scolding to his tone. "So I _do_ look different."

"Huh?" Peter frowned. "No. You look the same."

Flash returned his frown, quizzical. "But you just..."

He raised his eyebrows. "What?"

All innocent.

Flash narrowed her eyes. "Are you making fun of me?"

Peter slapped his hand to his forehead with a soft, "Oy." He held his other hand out, placating, and after a moment's hesitation set it on Flash's shoulder. "You look the same. I promise." He cracked a smile. "No eyeball worms or face tattoos in sight. The aesthetic lovechild of Gwen and MJ."

An old joke.

For that, he got another exasperated eyeroll but Flash met his smile with another, a little scrunched up. "Okay. Dork."

Peter was still staring.

Flash frowned a little.

"...Are you sure I don't have anything on my face?"

Peter snorted, hand still on Flash's shoulder; a weight that made him feel warm. "No, no." He rubbed Flash's shoulder, still so thoughtful. "I just never realized... how pretty you were, is all."

Flash glared at him. "You _are_ making fun of me."

"What? I'm not—"

Flash pulled away, and Peter spread his hands in disbelief.

"I'm not making _fun_ of you!"

Flash crossed his arms over his chest and looked away, focusing on the off-white walls and the dusty baseboard heaters. Showing Peter the broad side of his shoulder.

There were a lot of things Flash wanted to say but couldn't quite formulate. A lot of confusing feelings, some old, some new.

It was easier not to say anything at all.

With a huff, Peter crossed his own arms.

They both sat in frosty silence for at least a minute, on opposite sides of the couch.

Until Peter finally grumbled, again, "I'm not making fun of you."

Flash let out a breath, but she raised her head from where she'd rested it against the arm of the couch, and finally looked at Peter again.

His jaw was set, with that typical Parker stubbornness. He'd uncrossed his arms, palms on his thighs, one finger tapping away without him even aware of it. Staring at the coffee table like it had personally wronged him.

"For _once_ , I wasn't just being a jerk, okay?"

Flash sighed more heavily and let her head back down.

"I just never realized. You have a pretty face. That's all." Peter shrugged. Laughed a little. "Tits don't hurt either, but, you know." He sobered. "I never really looked at you, I guess."

For a moment, Flash said nothing. But then smiled—a little wry, a little crooked—and said, "You're shallow, you know that? _And_ a pervert."

Peter huffed. "Yeah, yeah. I'm a real cad."

A _cad_? What was he, _eighty_? Flash laughed.

The ensuing silence was a lot warmer, and after a few seconds, Peter stood. He left Flash on the couch, headed over to the fridge to stick his head in—as if there were anything in there. Flash knew how he was.

"Hey," Flash flopped into Peter's vacated spot, laying down across the couch. Peter looked up, one eyebrow raised, and Flash said, "If I look like a perfect blend of two girls you love, how did you never notice I was pretty?"

Peter sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes as he turned back to his task. "Because you're a boy?"

" _Am_ I?"

He looked at Flash again. " _Are_ you?"

Flash shrugged.

"Okay." Peter grabbed a stick of cheese from the fridge. "Maybe I _am_ shallow."

Flash snorted, pillowing her head on her arm. "You think with your downstairs brain too much. The boobs are gone, by the way."

Peter put a hand to his chest in faux-devastation. "What? They're _gone_?" He opened up a cupboard. "I'll need time to grieve."

Lighthearted.

As he rummaged around, neither of them spoke, though Flash smiled to himself watching Peter move around his tiny kitchen.

Eventually, with a box of crackers in his hand, looking down at the label thoughtfully, Peter said—almost inaudibly—"I missed you."

Flash swallowed down a tight wave of emotion.

"Yeah, uh." He turned his face against his arm, hiding his eyes. "Me too."


	2. doctor, doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter takes Flash to see Mr. Fantastic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE:  
>  **Content warning for some needle talk and blood drawing in this chapter.**  
>  Not super explicit but still some detail so just a heads up.

Peter Parker was officially the worst person—not that he didn't already know that, but suited up and swinging across town with Flash clinging onto his back in a webbed harness, half of all he could think about was the warmth where their bodies pressed together and _that_ was a bad train of thought to go down while airborne. Not that this would be the first or last time Peter got a little hot under the collar over a passenger.

The other half of his thoughts was something akin to a dialup screech as he processed the fact that one of his best friends had come back from the dead.

Also, to be fair, not the first time and probably not the last time something like that would happen.

But in _Peter's_ _bedroom_?!

And naked?!

Okay, abort thought process. Thank the inventors of the dance belt. Try not to think about Flash Thompson's body. Et cetera.

Had he always thought of Flash that way?

Or was he just _that_ lonely after Mary Jane dumped him? (Again.) (Very justifiably.)

Peter landed on the roof of 4 Yancy Street with barely a sound, mostly a slight shuffle from Flash's extra bodyweight upsetting his equilibrium.

"You alright? Never heard you silent for so long." Peter adjusted Flash on his back, and craned his neck awkwardly to kind of get a glimpse from the corner of his eye.

Flash hummed, loosening his arms around Peter's neck slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He patted the top of Peter's head. "Just enjoying the ride with my hero."

It had been so long since Peter heard that phrase in that voice, for a second he faltered—a stalling engine.

"Well, the Spider-Man Express aims for satisfaction."

There.

Flash snorted, and Peter grinned under his mask, heading over to the rooftop entrance.

A few fumbled keypresses later, a thumb scan, a suitably vague "Identity Confirmed. Entry Approved." message later—

"Hey, uh..." Flash twisted a little on Peter's back, probably looking around as they hopped into the elevator—the dimensions in this building, just ridiculous. "When you said we were seeing the Fantastic Four, were you... serious?"

Oh.

"Shit, that's right." Peter hit the button to the lab and the elevator lurched. "After... Well, after you died—You know how the Richards went missing?"

Flash nodded, a quiet, "Yeah...?"

The elevator hummed to a stop and announced, " _Laboratory_."

The doors slid open with a hiss.

"Well, they came back."

Reed Richards' hand snaked around a screen and offered itself to shake. His voice came from deeper in the lab, when Peter shook his hand—"Afternoon, Spider-Man. Who's your guest? I don't believe we've met."

Tentatively, Flash shook Dr. Richards' outstretched hand as well, as Peter headed into the lab, and said, "Thompson...? Flash Thompson."

"You sound uncertain." Reed's hand snapped back into place and he twisted to face them with a charming smile, wearing safety goggles and elbow-length gloves. "I'm Reed Richards. I think Johnny may have mentioned you, once." Probably not kindly, but Peter didn't add what Reed had left out.

Something popped and Reed's eyes flitted to the table at his elbow. "...If you'll give me just a moment..."

He turned back to his work, intent as he usually was when doing some experiment or other.

Peter reached up to pull his mask off and tucked it into the waist of his suit, shooting a line of webbing at a wheeled chair nearby and pulling it close in one easy movement.

As he set Flash down, Flash whispered, "I really thought you were _joking_."

Peter flicked Flash on the forehead with a grin. "I never joke." He shrugged out of the webbing harness he'd made and dropped it in Flash's lap. Gave a very faux-serious expression. "No jokes for this spider."

Flash huffed.

***

Though he trusted Reed, and knew this was a purely harmless procedure, Peter's dislike of all things medical coupled with his intensely protective nature to dig at the back of his skull. Not his spider-sense, just an insistent anxiety as he stood beside the examination chair with Flash's hand in his own.

Flash seemed calm, at least, even hooked up to a heartrate monitor and a bunch of electrodes as Reed took a blood sample.

Ugh.

Peter made a show of disinterest, really an excuse to look anywhere but the needle in Flash's arm or the vacuum tube collecting Flash's blood. Not that he was squeamish. Definitely not. It was just... His nature, to find himself restless in a medical setting... Just because he saw blood all the time didn't mean he wanted to see it outside of a friend's body, especially not a friend who had been dead up until very recently—

"What on _earth?_ "

Peter snapped to attention.

Reed held the blood collection tube up to the light, and Flash's hand tightened slightly in Peter's.

The liquid inside wasn't blood. It looked more like mercury, silvery-white as Reed rolled the vacuum tube between his fingers. And yet, before he'd looked away, Peter had distinctly noted the ruby-red color of Flash's blood through the needle.

"Curious..." Reed set the one tube down and reached the other, still empty and sealed, though he hesitated briefly. But then he nodded to himself and attached the safety needle to the tube.

Peter watched this time. Again, as he'd thought—red. The seal punctured, and blood filled the empty space in a slow pull, the color of black cherry juice. Flash sat with a straight back in the partially reclined chair, looking right ahead, heartrate holding steady, electrical pulses steady. Maybe a small spike. Peter squeezed Flash's hand, more for his own reassurance than anyone else's, considering Flash's familiar history with military blood tests and medical needles.

The tube filled, and Reed carefully detached needle from seal without taking his eyes away.

No longer attached to Flash, the black-red blood seemed almost to settle, and what settled was a pale silver, viscous liquid.

"Well," Reed set the second tube down beside the first. "I'm not sure what to make of that, quite yet."

He turned to unstick Flash, already reaching for a piece of gauze to press into the crook of Flash's elbow as he withdrew the needle. But he frowned slightly, and pulled back the gauze to inspect the needle site.

"Nor that."

He set the gauze aside unbloodied, with the other instruments in need of disposal or sterilization and rolled away from the examination table on his stool, with a thoughtful expression. Left Flash hooked up to the electrodes, with the little heart clamp on one finger, and disappeared with his stainless steel cart.

"...So."

Peter realized he was holding Flash's hand a smidge too tight, and let go. Though slightly pale, Flash didn't seem to mind or notice, just moving one hand to rest over the other.

"That's weird, right?" Peter planted his hands on his hips, resisting the urge to pace. "That's not—blood doesn't do that, normally."

Flash snorted. "No, I don't think so." A crooked smile, in Peter's direction, head leaned back against the paper-covered pillow of the exam chair. "At least, not mine."

The heartrate monitor had slowed slightly, though not worryingly so.

Well.

Peter _always_ worried.

He moved around to the other side of the examination chair—almost like a dentist's chair—and tugged on Flash's elbow to get a look. Not even a mark, not even a little bit of redness or any indication that anything had broken the skin. Not to Peter's sharp eyesight, and apparently not to Reed's regular vision since he hadn't bothered to wrap the area as one might expect.

Peter ran his thumb gently over the delicate skin there.

Flash seemed calm—Peter looked up and Flash had closed his eyes, breathing slowly.

"Hey." Peter gave Flash's arm a squeeze.

Flash's eyelids fluttered slightly, and he looked at Peter questioningly.

"You want me to go harass Johnny for some food?" Peter nodded toward the exit. "You look a little pale."

Flash smiled. "Make sure to be extra annoying."

Peter laughed under his breath and gave Flash a gentle knock to the shoulder. "You can always count on me."

***

When Peter came back with a handmade, lightly toasted, four-inch-thick sandwich wheedled out of the Human Torch, he found Flash and Reed talking quietly together. Reed had hooked Flash up to an IV drip, and Flash already looked a lot brighter, holding his head a little straighter and listening with intent.

"...unusual, to say the least. As near as I can tell, it matches other samples I've taken over the years in our various encounters but—Oh, Peter." Reed turned, scooting back on his wheeled stool slightly to give Peter some space to intrude. "I was just explaining to your friend that the blood samples aren't, well, blood. Though that's not much of a surprise, all things considered, but—"

"Not that I don't enjoy listening to you explain things," Peter handed Flash his sandwich. "You know I'd love to any other day. But could you summarize?"

Peter hadn't slept much this week and he hadn't thought to ask Johnny to make _him_ a sandwich. Too busy worrying about Flash to think about his own wellbeing.

"Oh," Reed blinked. "Yes. You must be worried sick."

Still delaying whatever terrible revelation—

"You see, your friend here isn't human."

 _What_.

And also—

"Did you forget Flash's name?"

Reed hesitated. Cleared his throat slightly. "That would be rude of me."

Flash laughed, which eased something in Peter's chest, and Peter grinned too, with his hands on his hips.

The "not human" part could wait.


	3. gimme the news

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flash and Peter are grumpy.

Flash popped a wheelie in the chair Mr. Fantastic had offered from the Fantastic Four's medical bay. It was collapsible, but entirely unlike any collapsible wheelchair Flash had used. Sleek, cambered, white and blue—naturally. A big 4 on the unpadded seat. Obviously not intended for long-term usage but still better than the piece of garbage that had been Flash's main mode of transportation the past few years until—well.

A lot of shit had happened since Philly.

"Can I _keep_ this?"

Reed Richards looked up from where he had contorted himself over a pile of papers, spread out across a stainless steel countertop. A big, heavy microscope too.

"I don't see why not." Mr. Richards peered into his microscope. "I can always make a new one." He twisted a dial or two, carefully, as he continued—"Though if you'd like a more permanent option I'd be happy to help you out, even if only to provide funds."

Wow.

Mr. Fantastic, of the _Fantastic Four_ , was offering to build or buy Flash a long-term wheelchair. Flash should have been used to celebrity interactions by now, but...

"Shit, I mean—" Flash let the chair out of its wheelie. "If you're serious?"

"It's no trouble at all. A friend of Peter's is a friend of the family." Mr. Fantastic waved off the notion like a fine draft of air, turning his attention to write something down on a piece of paper. "You have a problem; I can fix it."

Fair enough.

"Reed Richards, the fixer."

Peter was on the ceiling, pacing. Well. Maybe not the ceiling? Mr. Fantastic's lab was a strange beast, a tesseract of white walls, whiteboards, steel, monitors, buttons, and cantilevering. Peter was on a flat surface, upside-down, pacing.

"Can you fix _this_?" Peter gestured broadly.

Flash looked down, mouth tightening a little bit.

"Do I need to _fixed_?"

Of course Flash used to think so. But there was a difference, laying in the dark after a hard day and wishing for this or that to be _fixed_. A difference between that and your best friend saying you needed fixing right in front of someone else.

Mr. Fantastic cleared his throat awkwardly.

A soft thud alerted Flash to Peter's landing, barely audible. Probably on purpose.

"Hey." Red spider-boots edged into view, and Flash looked up along the lines of the uniform, to Peter's serious face and dark eyes. Peter frowned, but he didn't look away. Never did, always intense. "I didn't mean—"

His eyes searched Flash's face for something.

"Sorry."

Slight headshake—Flash turned his wheelchair just to the side, looking away.

"It's not like I'm gonna turn into Venom and—and do whatever you think it is that Venom's gonna do."

Peter let out a breath, something beyond a sigh. "I don't... _think_ that."

Of course he didn't specify what exactly it was that he didn't think.

A little loose strand of hair fell across Flash's forehead. Head bowed again, focused on anything other than Peter.

The white floor tiles. The sleek blue footrest , unoccupied, on this borrowed wheelchair. The age-softened fabric of the shorts Flash had borrowed from Peter, bright red faded nearly pink. Or maybe those had actually belonged to Flash once, loaned and never returned until now.

Peter's hand lit on the back of Flash's neck, a spider in its own way—Flash could feel his body heat through the glove, and didn't move away. The touch drew goosebumps up her skin, at first, but Peter's hand pressed firmer against the back of Flash's neck and he finally just said, again, "I'm sorry."

A simple phrase but it felt heavy with more than just the past few minutes' conversation.

Guilt. _Grief_.

"Look." Flash rolled forward, away from the careful weight of Spider-man's hand. "Can we just go?"

Go home, except Flash didn't have one of those anymore.

"Yeah." Peter put his mask on. "Yeah—hey, Reed, you tell Sue I said _hi_ , okay?"

Reed answered in the affirmative as Flash rolled away toward the exit, before Peter could try to grab the handles on the back of the sleek, borrowed fantasti-chair.

***

Gradually, the sky had darkened.

Now it was early evening, and Flash lay on Peter's couch, back to the room, face tucked against the cushions. Just lay there, eyes only barely open, listening to the radio play public access jazz of all things, occasionally interrupted by what sounded like a police scanner. Peter must have rigged something to combine the two. Nerd.

He was out.

Probably punching people.

Flash was alone.

Now that there was no mobility issue—didn't need Peter's help to get around the apartment.

Not that Flash couldn't have managed well enough without Peter's help, army-crawling and so on.

Not that the apartment itself wasn't still a little inconvenient to navigate even _with_ the wheelchair. Cramped, messy, everything up too high. Except the radio.

Flash couldn't leave, either. Not without keys, without a wallet, without clothes that weren't Peter's. No phone, no watch, no cash, no card. No legal existence, anymore. No nothing. Flash was nothing. A literal nobody, who shouldn't have existed at that point in time, who maybe just shouldn't have been born in the first place, to save everyone else the trouble—

Deep breaths.

The couch smelled a little dusty, a little old. A little like pizza.

Flash's stomach growled.

Well, if Flash knew Peter, he probably had some shitty fruit pies somewhere in the kitchen—high chance they were out of Flash's reach, though. Maybe some more leftover takeout—somehow he always had takeout even when he didn't have money, and Flash could never be entirely certain that at least some of the food in Peter's kitchen wasn't stolen.

And he had the nerve to criticize Flash's methodology.

Flash transferred off of the couch and wheeled over to the kitchen.

Not much down below—pots and pans, a sprouted potato that looked like it was on its way to sentience, some protein bars. Flash sighed and peered into the refrigerator. Eggs, a bag of pre-shredded cheddar, some takeout containers that looked like they might have been growing something, an entire beef salami stick, a jug of tomato juice, and a plastic bag that might have once contained something edible but which now looked to be most closely related to a slime mold.

Almost no condiments, except, crucially, horseradish and a jar of pickle relish. Absolutely not a single sauce

Peter, what the _fuck_.

Flash had been a depressed bachelor with the fridge to match plenty often but this was just sad.

There was also no bread.

Couldn't even make so much as a grilled cheese sandwich.

Fine. Flash could work with this. Cheese, yes. Eggs. Okay, there was only one egg, that was fine. Horseradish...? Sure, why not. Flash liked horseradish.

"Where's that potato..."

Listening to Peter's smooth jazz and sitting in the kitchen, Flash got to work removing the sprouts from the potato and peeling it—oddly therapeutic, but over very quickly since it was only one kind of small potato. And once again a reminder that Peter Parker probably only avoided scurvy by stealing orange juice from toddlers or something equally nefarious.

Did Peter even _eat_ vegetables?! Flash engaged the brakes on her new wheelchair and hopped up to grab the freezer door—it almost seemed out of reach but then, suddenly, Flash got ahold of it and it popped open. Just there—she could see the corner of a bag—frozen corn in the back. Okay, well, that wasn't _ideal_.

Flash _reached_ , fingers outstretched, back as straight as possible, a hand planted against the fridge door... Momentarily jealous of Peter's freakishly long limbs, like some kind of human spider—ha. Man-spider, Spider-man. Flash snorted, and in that moment of distraction, did seem to be lankier. Enough to grab the bag of corn from the back of the freezer and fall back with a huff.

For just a second, his arm seemed longer. Fingers longer too, like Peter's almost, but then Flash flexed that strangely familiar-unfamiliar hand and everything slotted back into place. Dainty fingers, scarred knuckles, and a round pink palm.

Okay.

Right.

Well, Mr. Fantastic had mentioned something like this might be a possibility.

He'd spoken at length about genetic codices, DNA samples, bloodstream traces... A lot of which Flash had tuned out, mostly nodding along as Mr. Richards waxed poetic about the particular way the human red blood cell functioned. He was very handsome and had a very soothing voice, but Flash had never been big on biology even though it had been preferable to the other varieties of science (and math).

Something, something, symbiotes. Something, something, emulation of the human body.

Like the Matrix?

Not really, no.

Before they'd left so quickly—all because Flash had been too easily hurt—Mr. Richards had intended to do some more tests, but... Clearly that hadn't worked out. Maybe he'd call with some more information after experimenting on the not-blood samples he'd taken. From everything he'd said, though, it sounded like he thought Flash was some kind of... recreation of the original. Not a clone, exactly.

A facsimile of the dead.

Flash's fingers tightened on the bag of frozen corn in his lap—

What _was_ he?

The cold soothed her skin, somehow more welcoming. Flash hugged it close to her soft-once-more chest, goosebumps prickling up her arms, a strand of hair falling loose in a tiny curl.

Great way to melt all the corn, like a dumbass.

Flash took a breath and tossed the bag of frozen corn onto the counter, disengaging the brakes on the borrowed chair so he could get back to work. Just a simple plan: preheat the oven, slice and boil the potato so it was mostly cooked, smash all the ingredients into a tiny casserole dish that Aunt May must have foisted on Peter, bake et voilà.

Gourmet.

Flash winced against the wave of heat from the oven, when finally finished. It wasn't clear if it was actually more intense than Flash remembered, or if it just felt that way from her confusion and strung out nerves, but Flash held back as far as possible, wishing for somehow thicker oven mitts. But nothing bad happened. The little casserole dish went on top of the stove to cool. Flash shut the oven, and let out a sigh.

All this effort—

No. This was fine. Flash had made a passable meal with only some hassle.

Now he just needed a plate.

...Right.

Flash sighed and pressed her hands to her face.

Okay.

Symbiotes.

Mr. Fantastic had mentioned symbiotes.

Flash had reached a bag entirely out of reach, somehow, on distractedly thinking about Peter's long arms. And just after waking up, had somehow molded the shape of this resurrected body just by touching. And in hugging the corn to his chest, had reshaped it again.

So, malleability. Flash could do malleability. Flash _liked_ malleability.

None of this was actually new, just the angle of attack.

Flash channeled thoughts of past exploits, of tendrils and reach, and whipped an arm out—

Nothing happened.

Flash groaned.

Whatever. There was a flat lid in one of the floor-level cupboards that might as well have been a plate, of thick blue plastic. Flash just scooped the potato-cheese-egg-horseradish-corn concoction onto the Tupperware lid and set it on her lap on top of a pot holder that must have also been something from Aunt May. No way would Peter buy a quilted, chicken-patterned pot holder, otherwise.

Flash rolled carefully back over to the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reed's fancy med-bay wheelchair is probably something similar to [this](https://www.behance.net/gallery/14174017/Two-Way-Wheelchair) or [this](http://www.universaldesignstyle.com/mobi-electric-folding-wheelchair-concept/) (or a combo) 'cause reed can't just have a regular boring hospital wheelchair for emergencies, it has to be scifi.
> 
> WHY is flash back and also a symbiote-pseudo-human? well, following in the footsteps of every professional marvel writer ever to retcon anything for no reason: because I said so. also i definitely will not address this and the goal of this fic is for peter and flash to kiss....... sorry.... if you were hoping for a like.... mysterious revelation XD i built up something that wasn't there and i do not have the means to really do anything with it. i am but... a humble....... writer of snuggling.
> 
> the reason flash still has things like scarred knuckles is cause that's something flash considers like.... well that's just how flash's body is. those scars have been there since high school, they are part of the skin. how it should be. so they show up. but new injuries (like, say, possible scars from the moment of death) wouldn't stick around.


	4. eating their insides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings are made known.

Stupid Peter Parker, fed by a steady diet of his own big foot in his own big mouth.

Peter sat on the edge of Brooklyn Bridge, way up high. Just looking out on the city, on the cars below, on the water, as the moon rose, with his mask in his hands. Not like anyone would see him here, and if they did, his spider-senses would warn him anyway. He looked down at his mask, stretching it out between his fingers so the eyes lay somewhat flat.

Spider-man, the great fuckup of New York City.

It was cold up here, but that was fine. In some ways it made him feel a little more alive.

More than could be said for half of the people he loved.

And yet, what did he do the very day he got one of them back? On the anniversary of their death, no less?

Of course, the best thing—imply they were broken and then leave them alone in his shithole apartment.

"Great job, Pete. You're a real swell friend."

He tugged his mask back on and stood, taking only a brief pause before launching himself off his perch and toward the cars below.

At the last second, he shot a line, and his toes almost grazed the top of a sports car as he reached the lowest point of his swing. Up, and down the length of the bridge—release, to run along the top of an armored banking truck, hopping lightly down from there and leapfrogging across honking cars (some colorful insults, too) until he leapt up and to the side and caught himself on the edge of the pedestrian walkway.

A jogger shrieked.

Peter tipped his hand with an, "Evening, ma'am."

At least one person definitely called him a _shithead_ , and he flipped them off as he made his leisurely way across the bridge, walking on top of the railing.

Few people paid him any mind as he swung home—this was New York, after all, and they'd probably seen weirder on their morning commute. It was fully dark, too, at least as dark as the city could get at night. Everyone else had more important things to be doing this late, or else they were drunk, and they didn't notice him anyway.

The arc of his motions—apex, nadir—came to him like running, second nature. Required just enough focus to keep his mind from wandering, but not too much because naturally the moment you focus too deeply on a repetitive task is the moment you fail.

And naturally it was in that moment he almost tripped over the edge of a building, in a leap.

Regain equilibrium.

Focus.

The rush of the air.

The silver-mauve of the clouds.

The hurt on Flash's face—

Peter almost faceplanted into a wall.

"Fuck."

What was he, sixteen again?

"You're a real putz, Pete." He hauled himself up over the edge of the building he'd hit. "A real fuckin' piece of work, huh?"

Off again, no more dwelling on his status as Biggest Jerk East of Manhattan.

Which, coincidentally, if you went far enough east, would encompass the whole world.

He landed on the roof of his apartment building in the dead of night. All was quiet, for once—not even the neighbors arguing. Just... some car alarm somewhere, sirens more distant, one of the neighbors' TV sets briefly crystal clear as Peter slunk down the wall of the building to perch on the fire escape. Sticky fingers, meet window—he pushed it up with a gentle slide and slipped into his dark apartment.

The radio was still on.

Ella Fitzgerald.

Peter shut the window as quietly as possible behind him and padded over to the radio to turn it off. He was starved, and hadn't thought to stop for food on the way home. He could just smell the traces of cheese and his nose led him to the scraped-off casserole dish on the counter beside the sink. He rolled his eyes and left it. He'd probably just wait until breakfast.

On the couch, he made out Flash's shape.

He tossed his mask onto the coffee table and stood before it as he pulled his gloves off finger-by-finger and let them fall too. Flash breathed slowly and shallowly—frankly, more than Peter had expected, after the sudden resurrection and Reed's theories as to Flash's potential non-human nature. Brock didn't breathe, after all, and he was just the host. If Flash was... the being in itself—

Himself.

Or whatever other pronoun Flash decided to use.

"Peter, Peter, stop overthinking..." Peter kept his voice low and moved around the edge of the coffee table so he could crouch down in front of the couch.

He held the back of his hand in front of Flash's mouth, half an inch away—Flash's breath was a little cool but still warm enough overall to reassure Peter. He gently brushed his knuckles against Flash's forehead. Again, a little cooler than expected, but not _cold_. Flash was just... slightly less warm than he remembered.

Peter kind of hated it.

"You ever wish everything could go back the way it used to be...?"

Before everything changed. Before everything got so much more complicated for everyone.

Complicated, and deadly.

Flash's breathing hitched and he shifted slightly.

Peter brushed his fingers through Flash's hair, lingering just a moment before straightening up with a sigh.

How far back, though?

If things could be the way they were before, what was the limit? Before Flash died, before Ock hijacked his life, before the hazy block of his memories that felt only half-complete existed, before—before, before, before.

Flash, Harry, Gwen.

Uncle Ben.

The spider?

And then what?

How would he feel then?

Everything would be fine and dandy for him to be a regular Queens boy with a loving aunt and uncle as much his parents as anyone else. And he'd have relegated all his friends back to their lives as they had been then. Flash a nuisance covered in carefully concealed bruises, and Betty struggling to support her family instead of being a kid, and MJ closed-off and lonely and pretending to be everything she couldn't be, and Liz at their nowhere school trying to build her own career ladder to climb up just to get out of her white trash house.

Maybe Gwen and her father never would have died.

But maybe Harry would have anyway.

And Flash.

Who knew how things would have gone with Flash.

Maybe _he_ would have been the one to fall from a bridge, without a so-called hero to catch him.

And it still would have been Peter's fault.

A little noise brought Peter out of his thoughts and he looked down at Flash, who drew in a deep breath as he rolled onto his back and let it out with a quiet, "Pete?"

"Hey, sleeping beauty." Peter held out his hand.

Flash took it, and pulled himself upright. "W'time is it?"

Peter shrugged. "Late." He let his hand brush Flash's shoulder. "Bed's probably more comfortable."

"I don't wanna make you sleep on the floor..." Flash sounded sleepy; soft and vulnerable.

With a snort, Peter leaned down and pulled Flash into his arms. "You think you can _make_ me do anything?" He lifted Flash no problem, and Flash wrapped his arms around Peter's neck with a breath. Peter tried not to think too hard about the shape of Flash's body against his chest and under his hands, and added, "I'll just lay on top of you like a blanket."

"Weirdo." Flash let out a quiet laugh, half sigh, and didn't even protest at Peter carrying him all the way to the bedroom (a whole, what, four feet?)

Another day, Peter might have tossed Flash onto the bed, or at least unceremoniously dropped him, but in the shadows of his bedroom all he did was kneel against the edge of the mattress and let Flash down gently against the sheets. Stealthily pretending not to turn his nose into Flash's slightly greasy, ozone-scented hair.

For just a second, it seemed like Flash might not let go, maybe asleep again already—but Flash 's arms slipped from around Peter's neck and Peter straightened up with an awkward cough.

"Lemme just..." Peter jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "See if I have any extra pillows."

Flash yawned. "Mm-hm."

 _Excuses, excuses_.

Peter made a show of opening the closet and craning his neck, turning on the light and everything.

"Here's one!" Of course he'd already known it would be there. "Catch!"

Flash, one hand blocking the light, squinted at Peter and didn't bother trying to catch or move away from the stuffed projectile. It landed on his head with a whump, and he spread his arms out across the bed with a grunt.

"Ugh, you got me."

No _oomph_. No _dedication_. A lackluster performance overall.

Peter rolled his eyes and shut the closet and turned off the light, all the while saying, "Yeah, yeah, my prowess on the battlefield has proven your downfall." He stripped in the darkness, out of his suit and dance belt and into a pair of loose sweatpants. "The Strawberry Empire has fallen to the Spider Rebellion!"

In the shadows, Peter could just make out Flash pulling the pillow away to peer at him, and ask, "Strawberry Empire?"

"What?" Peter headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He tossed over his shoulder, "You're strawberry blonde. You wanna be the Rebellion instead?"

Flash was silent a moment, but eventually said, "No, it's just... cute."

Peter hummed at his reflection.

Spit, rinse, repeat.

He dried his face and rose his voice to ask, "You don't like cute?"

Refrained from adding that _cute_ suited Flash.

Flash huffed.

"Maybe." He rolled over to make room for Peter in the bed. "I dunno."

Peter climbed under the blankets, and maybe he did need a bigger bed but if he had that, well. It wouldn't have fit in his room. He lay on his back, rather than face Flash directly, though he turned his head to inspect the silhouette beside him.

"Hey." He let his hand brush the back of Flash's arm. "Goodnight."

Flash nodded, with a quiet, "...thanks."

Peter smiled to himself.

***

Peter would have done anything to take the day off, waking up beside Flash before the sun had risen.

Maybe that was just his relief talking.

Flash's chest barely rose and fell with slow breaths, and everything was quiet... calm. In the night Flash had turned away from Peter further, and Peter had crowded up against him, and maybe he ought to have felt worse for taking up more than half the bed and smashing Flash up against the wall in his unconscious embrace. But Flash seemed to be sound asleep, and Peter relished the feeling of him being alive and real in his arms.

Just once, if time could stop and he could stay like this forever...

Unfortunately the twin calls of nature and responsibility led Peter to extricate his limbs from around Flash's body.

Probably for the better if Peter didn't want to end up with some unfortunate friction between the two of them, anyway.

It wasn't until Peter was nearly dressed that a soft "Pete?" broke the early pre-dawn silence.

He straightened his tie before looking out from the bathroom.

The light from over the mirror spilled out into the tiny bedroom, all close enough that the harsh white light picked out Flash's features as he closed his eyes against it. Long, honey-colored eyelashes, sleep-flushed cheeks, a frown wrinkling the spot between his eyebrows.

"Morning." Peter turned his attention back to his reflection, to warm some pomade between his hands. "You should go back to bed. It's early."

Flash made a noise somewhere between a whine and a grunt, petulant, and Peter grinned at himself crooked in the mirror as he pushed his fingers through his hair.

"Well, aren't _you_ grumpy." He made a final pass at his hair and turned to cross his arms and raise his eyebrows. "You want me to make you breakfast before I go?"

A pause.

Flash peeked out from under his arm at Peter.

Peter grinned.

"...You sound like your aunt."

Peter scowled.

He did make Flash breakfast, though, and moved a few things down from the cupboards while he was at it. Flash refused to be carried this time, slightly more conscious and infinitely more crabby pre-coffee. So Peter had grabbed the wheelchair they got from Reed and left Flash to do his thing.

Now Peter set a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal—which he never ate, because he hated oatmeal, and he didn't know why he owned a box of oatmeal in the first place—on the coffee table for Flash, who came out of Peter's bedroom with damp-curled hair wearing a red t-shirt of Peter's and some blue workout leggings that dangled over the seat of the wheelchair.

"You're gonna stretch out all my shirts..." Peter rolled his sleeves down, eyeing Flash. Definitely some tightness in those shoulder seams, around the chest... And wasn't _that_ pretty? Peter made himself look at Flash's face. 

Flash rolled his eyes but grinned as he moved himself onto the couch. "Maybe you should get buffer."

Peter scoffed. "As if these guns don't bend steel!" He flexed and—well it wasn't very impressive hidden under his work clothes.

Flash's eyes twinkled, and something in Peter's chest warmed. He smiled and crossed his arms, loathe to leave in just a few minutes but glad that, for those few minutes, he could at least have one of his best friends back.

He sat on the couch beside Flash and bumped their shoulders together.

"It's good to have you back, buddy."

Flash laughed through a spoonful of oatmeal but leaned back against Peter's push—Peter wrapped his arm around Flash's waist and squeezed—pressed a hard kiss to the side of his head before standing right back up again. Flash raised his eyebrows, questioning.

"I'm gonna call MJ, later." Peter backed away from the couch. "And Harry. And—fuck, everyone. Liz, Betty, Glory" He pointed a finger at Flash. "I'm gonna call everyone and everything's gonna be like it used to be. Like old times."

Flash tilted his head, a sort of sad smile, but said, "Yeah, okay."

"Okay!" Peter grabbed his jacket. "Right. Okay. I'll check on you during my lunch break. I left some food out for you, so don't forget to eat."

Flash smiled a little wider. "You really _are_ turning into your aunt."

Maybe so.

"Whatever. You love it."

Flash laughed. " _Bye,_ Peter."

"Never goodbye." Peter didn't know where that came from. MJ had said something similar to him once, when they were still together a long time ago, but struggling. Felt like a hundred years, now, and hazy at the edges like part of the memory had frayed and unraveled. Peter fumbled for the doorknob. "I'll see you soon. I love you."

They stared at each other a moment.

"Okay, bye."

Peter shut the door behind him a little too hard.

 _Whoops_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peter, standing creepily over flash in the dark: I'm the worst.
> 
> what kind of one-bedroom apartment has the bathroom in the bedroom? I don't know. maybe it's the fabled 1 bed, 1½ bath apartment


	5. i'm always looking out for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sentimentality is the name of the game.

Flash had been thinking about what Peter said all morning, interspersed with fitful, ineffectual naps for lack of anything better to do.

Lunch consisted of sliced salami, stale crackers, and one of the fruit pies Peter had set out within easy reach.

 _I'll see you soon. I love you_.

Why had he said that?

And what the hell was Flash supposed to do? Flash was in the middle of a very confusing life milestone, involving some very confusing bodily changes, cooped up in Peter Parker's apartment, and Peter had just left with an "I love you" like that!

Flash shoved a cracker into his mouth.

He couldn't have meant it that way, though. It was just because Flash had come back so suddenly and everyone was feeling a little overwhelmed. Because he missed how things used to be. Flash knew that. Peter had just missed Flash, and her body just threw him off and made him think he was feeling something more than their usual teasing friendship.

Or so Flash could pretend to believe—but not even _his_ self-esteem was really that fucked up.

Flash was attractive, he knew this. And the simplest look through their history together showed that Peter cared for Flash at least as much as Flash cared for Peter—even to the point of _literally_ taking care of him.

Something as simple as an A-cup wasn't enough to sway Peter one direction or the other.

Peter wasn't _that_ shallow.

Well.

Probably.

Maybe.

Was he?

No.

Flash leaned back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling and the fine cobwebs there.

To the question of whether Flash reciprocated Peter's apparent feelings—

God, yes.

Flash had adored Spidey from the moment she set eyes on him. Which was, admittedly, a little embarrassing but hard to help. She'd been captain of the Spider-man fan club for nearly as long as she'd been the star quarterback at Midtown High. An angry teenage boy desperately in need of a role model and a hero.

And Peter—well, Peter had grown on Flash a great deal since high school. Had grown into himself. Filled out. Lean confidence... Cutting dark eyes... Somehow charming even when he was a dick. Strong hands, long limbs, an intense gaze, and hair just messy enough to look good instead of lazy. Even when he dressed like a dork or had stupid bedhead, he managed to make it work, somehow.

It was easy to understand how Peter got so much action despite his entire personality.

Not that Peter was _all_ that bad, really.

Sure he could be a dick, but he had a good heart under the rude comments and short temper and flaky tendencies. He cared, even though sometimes it seemed like he didn't—cared about his aunt, about his friends. About doing the right thing, legality or expectations be damned.

It had taken Flash a while to see that side of him. Longer than he would have liked to admit, spent bickering and biting at each other (Flash would be the first to admit that Peter wasn't the only jackass in this scenario.)

But it was there—those moments of righteous indignation, of dedicated passion, and almost-startling tenderness.

Moments where Flash saw Peter.

Peter, deeply absorbed in a book on philosophy, with bits of electronics from some abandoned project scattered on the table, a frown drawing his eyebrows together. Peter, jokingly pulling Harry into a dance, trading Gwen off to MJ—silly on the surface but with a gentleness underneath that Flash envied. Peter, arguing with the RA about the rules for candles in the dorm rooms—spirited, maybe enjoying the sound of his own voice a little too much.

Flash sighed.

He needed to find something to do other than sit around pining.

Couldn't get into Peter's laptop, probably for the better, so she couldn't watch a movie or do much of anything to entertain herself other than listen to the radio. Peter's TV didn't even work, and it looked like he may or may not have dismantled part of it...

Not to mention, barely anything worth reading. Flash rolled over to the bookcase to inspect its contents. Most of Peter's books consisted of the type of thing Flash wasn't particularly interested in or struggled to understand—French political philosophy, computational statistics, theoretical engineering (whatever _that_ was supposed to mean) and so on... He had two copies of his own photobook, though— _Webs: Spider-Man in Action_ —one copy that looked like it had never been opened, and the other well-worn.

Flash slipped out of his wheelchair so he could sit on the floor. He pulled out the second, more worn copy of _Webs_ , and settled with his back against the bookcase to run a hand over the beaten cover. Of course he'd bought his own when it first came out, but... he hadn't looked at it in a while, and who knew where it might have been at this point. In a box somewhere, or tossed out—

Wait.

Flash stilled, as she opened the cover.

Tentatively ran a finger over the ink on the red endpaper.

Jagged, almost hastily-written, imprinted into Flash's memories from the moment he had sheepishly asked for an autograph—

Spider-man, tilting his head in bemusement with those big white eyes, hanging sideways from a brick wall before he'd dropped down and said, "Yeah, sure, alright. Who's it for?" Playful, like he was winking under that mask. Like he didn't know _exactly_ who wanted it, standing right there all giddy and blushing with a dark blue sharpie clutched in his hand.

Flash hadn't looked to see what Spider-man had written 'til he got home, carrying the book like some kind of priceless treasure. Which, to him, it might as well have been.

When he'd finally looked, he'd had to go lay down with his head under his pillow for a little bit.

 _Flash Thompson! Don't tell anyone, but I'm your biggest fan!_ 🕷️ _Spidey_

Flash's vision swam.

There was that little scrawl underneath, too. From Peter, who had insisted on adding his own autograph—which, in retrospect, was a little bit egotistical—

 _Well, aren't you special! Hope you like, buddy. And if you don't, I don't wanna know! Peter_ ❤

The sarcastic fucking heart, what a smug bastard—

A stray teardrop managed to escape Flash's eye, and dripped down his nose to land on the page. The moment it hit the paper it balled into this strange little droplet of silver-white... Flash wiped it up with his thumb, reabsorbing it entirely into his skin in a brief shimmer...

Of course, at that moment the lock turned, and Peter opened the front door with a sing-song "I'm hooome—"

He paused on the threshold, as Flash hurriedly scrubbed at her face.

"...Why're you on the floor?" Peter shut the door behind him quietly, and set his bag and keys aside to move closer.

Flash sniffed, regaining _some_ composure, and rather than answer, offered her own question:

"What'd you do with my stuff?"

Peter was quiet a moment, but he came over and knelt beside Flash, reaching out to run his finger over one of the corners of the book cover. He flicked the book shut and took it from Flash, only now quietly saying, "We donated most of it." He slid the book back into its place beside what was presumably his own pristine copy, and sat beside Flash. He sighed, softly.

"To people in need. Vet organizations. Children's hospitals. I mean. What better use for all your little Spider-man tchotchkes than to make people happy, you know?" He looked down at his hands a moment, a telling tightness to his words. "It was—Felicia's idea, actually. It just made sense. And your wheelchair, and all that... Better to give it to someone who needed it than to leave it gathering dust, or in a dumpster somewhere."

Flash nodded. Swallowed, and asked, "What'd you keep?"

Peter sort of smiled sideways. "Other than the book?" He leaned his head against the bookshelf. "Your mom's got all your football stuff, your medal... She framed it on her wall at the home. I think your sister has one of your trophies." His expression softened. "That girl—Andi—we gave her your letter jacket, from high school."

"Oh." Flash fought back another wave of emotion. "She's—how are they? How is everyone? I haven't—I've been so overwhelmed with everything, I didn't think—"

"Hey," Peter shifted a little closer, reaching for Flash's hands to squeeze them with his own. Such long fingers. "A lot's been going on. Everyone's okay now. You know how things are." He ran his thumb over Flash's knuckles. "Everyone's alright."

Implying things might have been less than alright for a time—Flash had no doubt he'd find out more about that later.

"What're we gonna tell people?" Flash leaned against Peter. " _How_ are we gonna tell people?"

Peter moved a little, to wrap one arm around Flash's shoulder. He still held Flash's hand, though. Firm. "We'll figure that out. Something tells me we shouldn't just throw a surprise party, huh?" He grinned a little.

Flash huffed. "Harry would probably faint."

"The look on everyone's faces..." Peter squeezed Flash's shoulder with his own quiet laugh.

His hand drifted a little lower, around Flash's waist. Pulling her tighter against his side.

"About earlier..."

Flash turned her head to look at him—probably a mistake, because their faces were very close. Close enough for their noses to brush and for Flash to see the slight scattering of freckles on the bridge of Peter's nose. She'd never noticed that before. Never been so close to see it.

"You mean," Flash tried not to go cross-eyed looking Peter in the eye. He had very long eyelashes. "This morning, when you said you loved me before running out the door?"

Peter grimaced. "Yeah?"

Flash thought about how Peter had said he was pretty, the day before. How mad he'd been, thinking it was a joke at his expense.

"Did you mean it?"

For a moment, Peter didn't say anything, and Flash's stomach sank. This was it. Peter was going to laugh in his face. It was all just an elaborate way to fuck with him—

"Of course I meant it." Peter let Flash's hand go, and brought his loosely closed fist to Flash's chin—drawing his knuckle up along the curve of her jaw. His hand at her waist was warm through the t-shirt she'd borrowed. "You think I'd wipe just _anyone's_ ass?"

"Fuck you!" Flash gave Peter a shove, laughing. "That was _years_ ago." But he grinned, and didn’t actually pull away. "I was in a _coma_."

Peter laughed too. His hand was still warm on Flash's waist, and Flash's shirt had ridden up a little so Peter's fingers brushed against bare skin. They both calmed a little, smiling but quiet, and Flash raised an arm around Peter's shoulder not unlike the way Peter had done earlier. Peter's tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, and his eyes drifted to Flash's mouth... his fingers toying with the hem of Flash's shirt.

"You have no idea how badly I want to kiss you right now..."

Flash could guess, twining their fingers together—"Probably about as bad as _I_ want you to kiss me?"

Peter hummed. "You think so?"

He knew so.

They shifted a little closer, each closing the small gap between them until their lips met—Flash didn't quite know what to expect but something in Peter's gentleness caught him off guard. The soft tickle of his fingers along Flash's waist... The way he squeezed his hand.

His lips were a little dry on Flash's, and Flash mumbled, "You need to get some chapstick..."

"Hm." Peter grinned, a little smug without any reason to be yet, just a breath away from Flash. "Your lips are so soft, I don't think I'll need any."

Christ, was he _always_ so corny?

And yet—Flash blushed. Not as hotly as she used to before she died, but still enough she could feel her ears burning.

" _Dork_."

Peter kissed Flash again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end✨  
> who needs a plot i just wanted them to kiss
> 
> There's an additional wip chapter I have in my doc after this that is just... them boning..... but idk if i will include it... i don't think i like it


End file.
